She wrote: “In the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make I desire that you would Remember the Ladies, and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors. … Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could. If perticuliar care and attention is not paid to the Ladies we are determined to foment a Rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice or Representation.”
In her March 31, 1776, letter, Abigail Adams articulated a concern that is at the root of a contradiction America has wrestled with since its founding: The Declaration of Independence promised equal rights to all — but shaped access to power as a privilege bestowed on only a few.
Abigail Adams’ assertion linking basic human rights and shared power is a way to think about the American project and the paradox underlying a persistent critique of our democracy, said Harvard University political philosopher Danielle Allen, author of “Our Declaration: A Reading of the Declaration of Independence in Defense of Equality.”
As the nation marks its 250th year, The 19th is asking a central question: What does it mean to be revolutionary today — and who should we recognize as the revolutionaries still fighting to have that question answered on equal terms? Explore this series.
“Respect for the dignity of others isn’t just about singing ‘Kumbaya,’” said Allen, whose teachings on the Declaration of Independence to university and night school students center on deepening their understanding of their own connection to our democracy. “It is about sharing power with others.”
There is perhaps no group of Americans who have been denied power in our democracy more than Native Americans. They are explicitly identified in the Declaration of Independence’s list of grievances as “inhabitants of our frontiers,” “merciless Indian savages” and “domestic insurrectionists” loyal to the King of Great Britain — the enemy, the oppressor.
Sharice Davids, who is also Kansas’ first LGBTQ+ member of Congress, is in her fourth term. (Michael Brochstein/SIPA/AP)
But Native American nations like the Catawba, Delaware and Oneida fought and scouted for the 13 colonies during the American Revolution. Their tribes practiced democracy on the land that would become America long before the existence of our country and its system of government.
They also served and sacrificed for our country well before the United States recognized them as citizens — and long before they were given their share of power.
In 2018, Sharice Davids, a member of the Ho-Chunk Nation, and Deb Haaland, who is part of the Laguna Pueblo tribe, became the first two Native American women elected to Congress. They are trailblazers from a long lineage of women whose ancestors were original inhabitants of the land that became America.
Their families follow in a tradition directly tied to the origin story of our nation’s independence and founding. Haaland’s father, a 30-year Marine combat veteran, received a Silver Star for his service in Vietnam and her mother worked for 25 years in the Bureau of Indian Affairs after serving in the Navy. Davids’ grandfather served in the Army for 23 years and her mother joined the Army after graduating from high school.
Since the Revolutionary War, Native Americans have served in every major U.S. conflict, even before they were recognized as citizens in 1924. Today, they serve in the United States Armed Forces at five times the national average — and have a higher concentration of women service members than all other demographic groups.
Davids said Native Americans have a “complex” relationship with the federal government. At home, her mother made sure she understood that and also embraced this country as her own. She used to say, “You can be mad about the past or have thoughts or opinions about it, but we all have to live here now; we’re all American,” Davids recalled.
“The biggest lesson from that was that you can be of service, and being of service doesn’t mean being oblivious. If there are things that I want to change, I have the opportunity to do that,” Davids said.
Davids, who is also Kansas’ first LGBTQ+ member of Congress, is in her fourth term. Haaland was the first Native American secretary of the Interior, and if elected in New Mexico this year, she would become the country’s first Native American woman governor.
Haaland said her journey to public service has been shaped by the legacy of her ancestors, one that has guided her to lead “with my values and my commitments to my community,” she said. As a congresswoman, she held the first House hearing on murdered and missing Indigenous women, who are three times more likely to be sexually assaulted during their lifetime. As Interior secretary, she ordered an investigation into federal Indian boarding schools, forcing the federal government to reckon with its painful history of policies designed to erase Native culture.
Deb Haaland was the first Native American secretary of the Interior, and if elected in New Mexico this year, she would become the country’s first Native American woman governor. (Drew Angerer/Getty Images)Davids’ approach to governing is also rooted in those who came before her and inspired in part by her time doing economic and community development work on the Pine Ridge Reservation in South Dakota, where she lived among a tribe that was not her own. The experience “actually taught me a lot about what it means to build trust,” Davids recalled.
“It doesn’t just come from being able to identify with each other in terms of experiences. It’s also about showing up over and over and showing up ready to learn,” she said. “In my role as a member of Congress, my job is a lot of listening and not dictating to people what it is they should want or need. Instead, it’s more of building up trust.”
What Davids and Haaland have done is use their power in government — power that has long been denied to Native Americans in this country — to expand power for others.
“When you look at what service means,” Davids said, “it is like, how do I make the highest and best use of the skills and knowledge and time that I have to be of service to my community and my country?”
It is a practice built on endurance, even in the face of the federal government’s relentless efforts over decades to eradicate Native Americans — by taking their land, by taking their children to boarding school often miles away from their homes, by annihilating tribes.
“We’re still here,” Haaland said. “Nothing that the federal government did to break us apart and eradicate our tribes worked. Everything they tried to do to get rid of us failed.”
At the nation’s 250th anniversary, Native Americans, Haaland added, will “likely be out there celebrating the anniversary of our country with everyone else, right? Because this is our land, and they can’t separate us from it.”
Now is a moment for us to recognize Native Americans as revolutionaries — then and now — who are still the keepers and inhabitants of our democratic frontier.
The first Indigenous women in Congress carry a legacy older than American democracy itself was first published on The 19th and republished with permission.
Errin Haines is the editor-at-large at The 19th.
She started in the ATF’s Denver office as an industry operations investigator, the bureau’s term for inspectors who ensure that firearms dealers are conducting the required background checks on buyers and maintaining sales records. When the bureau found discrepancies, it tended to settle for reprimands and improvement plans, rarely going so far as to revoke a dealer’s license.
In 2021, things started to change. The country was experiencing a surge of deadly violence, with homicides up more than a third since 2019, and the administration of President Joe Biden was desperate to reverse the trend. For years, data had shown that a large share of guns used in shootings came from a small fraction of dealers, and that guns that were trafficked — sold by stores to straw purchasers (people other than the intended users) or resold on the street — were far more likely to be used in shootings.
Acting on this data, the administration in June 2021 announced what became known as “zero tolerance”: Dealers found to be willfully violating the law would lose their licenses, period. Revocations spiked, from fewer than 50 in 2019, 2020 and 2021 to a record 181 in 2023.
Also in 2021, Biden’s attorney general, Merrick Garland, started urging federal prosecutors to prioritize gun violence. A year later, Congress passed a law that added a firearms trafficking conspiracy charge to the federal criminal code, a crucial new tool for prosecutors.
After 2021, the homicide rate started falling, which criminologists attributed to several factors, including repair of the social fabric since the coronavirus pandemic and a closing of the breach in police-community relations that followed the 2020 murder of George Floyd. One other factor got less attention: the clampdown on the illegal flow of firearms.
The Biden administration struggled to broadcast its gains on public safety, and Donald Trump won the election in 2024 partly by vowing to restore order. By the time Trump reentered the White House, Mitchem had risen to associate assistant director for industry operations, overseeing inspectors across the country. “We were making incredible progress on trafficking, on violent crime,” she said late last year.
But the Trump administration, driven both by gun-lobby advocacy and its own political priorities, quickly set about undoing much of its predecessor’s moves to combat gun violence. It repealed the zero-tolerance policy, going so far as to invite revoked dealers to reapply for new licenses. It shifted hundreds of ATF agents to immigration work. And it scaled back on prosecutions for gun trafficking. The White House declined to comment, referring questions to the ATF and the Department of Justice.
The homicide rate fell further last year, but criminologists warn against complacency, because the illicit gun trade is a classic pipeline problem: The harm can take a while to make itself felt. Research has found that the typical “time to crime” for trafficked firearms ranges up to about three years, which means that any positive lag of the anti-trafficking efforts of the Biden years would still be in effect now, with any negative effects of the Trump pullback lying in the years to come.
Among those now sounding the alarm is Mitchem. Dismayed at the policy reversal, she left the ATF last spring, after 21 years, and joined Everytown, the gun-safety group founded by Michael Bloomberg.
“Just because no one is watching the trafficking pipelines right now doesn’t mean guns aren’t flowing through it. It just means they’re not being intercepted,” she told me.
“And as you walk away from that, and you don’t have your focus on that anymore,” she added, “that pipeline is going to be flowing, and we are going to start to see the violent crime impact from that over time.”
Estimates put the number of guns in the United States at close to 400 million, but the odds that any of them will be put to ill use rise exponentially if they are obtained illegally. Of the 2.3 million firearms traced from crime scenes between 2017 and 2023, half were bought less than three years earlier and 87% were recovered in possession of someone other than the original, legally authorized buyer. Over that period, stores sold almost 1.3 million guns to traffickers that were subsequently recovered in a crime, according to an Everytown analysis of ATF statistics.
This is why the laws governing gun sales carry such high stakes for public safety. But enforcement of these laws has long occupied an unusual no-man’s-land in this country, scrambling the standard political lines around criminal justice. Conservatives favoring tough-on-crime rhetoric are frequently torn when it comes to firearms trafficking: On the one hand, traffickers are helping fuel the violent crime that conservatives decry; on the other, prosecution of gun laws brushes against tenets that conservatives hold sacrosanct. It is liberals who are more likely to push for tougher enforcement, though they can be conflicted, too, as their belief in stricter gun laws runs up against a general preference for a less punitive approach to lawbreaking.
Marooned in this no-man’s-land for decades now has been the agency assigned the task of enforcing federal gun laws, the ATF. Going back to an episode at Ruby Ridge, Idaho, in 1992, where an ATF investigation of illegal gun dealing led to federal agents killing the wife and son of a white separatist, the ATF has been viewed with scorn by people who otherwise might side with armed government authorities. “ATF IS GAY” read the T-shirt worn by one attendee of a big gun show I attended earlier this year in Manassas, Virginia.
The agency’s radioactivity with the gun-rights lobby has left it on shaky political ground. It went seven years without a Senate-confirmed director. Its budget has not enjoyed the same expansion as that of other federal law enforcement agencies. And stringent laws constrain any ATF capabilities viewed as potentially threatening the rights of gun owners. To comply with a 1986 law preventing the creation of a federal gun registry, for example, the ATF uses software with some features disabled. Steve Dettelbach, who served as director under Biden, joked in a 2024 congressional hearing that the ATF might be “the only customer of Adobe Acrobat that pays money to remove search function.”
Despite these constraints, the ATF has developed its investigative capability. In the 1990s, the agency started sharing with local law enforcement agencies its National Integrated Ballistic Information Network, which collects the unique marks on bullet casings found at shooting scenes. The system has become much more potent as it became easier to share large numbers of images from crime scenes rapidly and compare them against the NIBIN database. The work was boosted further by the creation, starting in 2016, of 25 crime gun intelligence centers to process the data.
Given that a tiny share of the nation’s guns are used in shootings, with many of those used multiple times, the leads produced by the technology can have an outsized impact, said Daryl McCormick, who retired last year as special agent in charge of Ohio and southern Indiana. “It’s crazy how it might spiderweb out,” he told me, “because you have a gun that’s used in three shootings, but in one of those three shootings, there’s a guy that’s linked to three more shootings.”
Starting in the spring of 2020, that technology was put to the test. As homicides rose sharply, so did sales at dealerships. By one estimate, there were 3 million more guns sold between that March and July than would have been expected. Many soon turned up in shootings; the number of guns recovered at crime scenes that had been bought from a dealership less than a year earlier, an especially strong indicator of firearms trafficking, jumped by nearly a third from 2019 to 2021.
Meanwhile, many shootings involved ghost guns assembled from kits, which had begun proliferating a few years prior. Amid other factors driving the killing, the sheer plenitude of weaponry on the streets was pivotal, said Daniel Webster, a gun-violence researcher at Johns Hopkins University. “We know,” he told me, “that a small number of dealers can create a substantial amount of harm, and traffickers as well.”
In the spring of 2021, a 25-year-old man was summoned to help a friend in a confrontation at a low-income housing development in Middletown, Connecticut. It was a petty beef arising from disrespectful comments made to someone’s girlfriend, but Tylon Hardy responded anyway. “He was one of the guys who wanted to protect his community,” his sister, Tianna Hardy, told me later. “He showed up to protect his friend.” After he arrived, Tylon was fatally shot in the back.
A photo of Tylon Hardy in his sister’s house. He was fatally shot in Middletown, Connecticut. Jarod Lew for ProPublica
Guns are tightly regulated in Connecticut, where buyers must first obtain a permit. But this gun had not been sold by a Connecticut store. It had been purchased six days earlier at Smokin’ Barrel Guns and Ammo in Raleigh, North Carolina, more than 600 miles away.
It was a particularly rapid movement up the Iron Pipeline, the name for the trafficking channel from southern states with lax gun laws to northern states with stricter ones. And it turned into a clear example of why trafficking enforcement matters. Investigators obtained camera footage from the shop showing a young man emerging after buying the gun, a Taurus 9 mm pistol, to make a call on his cellphone.
The following spring, the Biden-nominated U.S. attorney for the Eastern District of North Carolina, Michael Easley Jr., produced indictments in the case that started with the camera: Four people were charged with having engaged in a conspiracy to traffic dozens of guns from shops in eastern and central North Carolina. All told, the ringleader had bought more than 100 guns from straw purchasers in North Carolina; 10 of the guns surfaced at crime scenes in Connecticut and New Jersey. The ringleader ended up pleading guilty and being sentenced to more than 10 years in prison; the other three received sentences ranging from 18 months to five years.
Tianna Hardy’s brother, Tylon, was shot with a trafficked gun from North Carolina. Jarod Lew for ProPublica
Easley kept pursuing trafficking cases, poring over spreadsheets full of NIBIN data showing information for every gun traced from shootings in his district. His office would zero in on guns with a short “time to crime” from the initial sale and see if investigators could build leads from purchase records. His team made its interest in trafficking plain to the local ATF division, motivating agents to build cases. “Prosecutors have the ability to send a demand signal to the marketplace of agents, that we have an interest in these and if you bring us the cases, we will push them over the end zone and get convictions,” he told me.
Prosecutors kept getting more encouragement from Washington. In April 2022, the ATF issued a rule decreeing that ghost guns had to conform to the same regulations as regular firearms, including carrying serial numbers and requiring background checks.
Two months later, Biden signed the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act, which got crucial Republican backing from North Carolina Sen. Thom Tillis. In addition to the new trafficking conspiracy charge, the law included a new straw-purchasing charge, expanded background checks for buyers under 21 and funding for states with red-flag laws permitting gun confiscations from those judged dangerous. And a month after that, the Senate confirmed Dettelbach, giving the ATF its first confirmed director since 2015, one who had prosecuted gun crimes as U.S. attorney for the Northern District of Ohio.
Across the country, federal prosecutors took on trafficking cases with gusto. Over the remainder of Biden’s term, they charged more than 500 defendants using the new trafficking statutes; others brought cases using laws already on the books.
In Ohio, McCormick and his ATF colleagues took on a sprawling case that started with a shooting with a machine gun in Avondale, outside Cincinnati, and led to a six-year prison sentence for a 24-year-old man who had made and sold over 80 machine-gun conversion devices; two other men who trafficked the devices to Cincinnati gangs were sentenced to nine and 11 years. As in North Carolina, the Ohio agents were getting encouragement from prosecutors, including Kenneth Parker, the then-U.S. attorney for the Southern District of Ohio. “I made it clear, through my edicts, my announcements to them that we wanted those cases involving violence, that they know how seriously we were taking them,” he told me.
In February, I drove to Raleigh to meet with Easley and visit Smokin’ Barrel — or what used to be Smokin’ Barrel. The shop closed after the ATF revoked its license in early 2023, not for having sold the gun in the Connecticut case, but for an earlier incident, in which the owner sold a gun to an 18-year-old woman, in violation of North Carolina’s 21-year age minimum for buying a handgun. The shop, a small outbuilding adjacent to a used car lot, now sat empty; its fading sign still stood roadside.
Not far away, I found the former owner, Richard Humphries, at his home. He told me how upset he still was over the revocation, especially since, he said, he had self-reported the improper sale.
When I asked him about the Taurus that ended up being used six days later in the Connecticut killing, he initially had trouble recalling it, confusing it with another case in which a man had used a gun bought at the store to kill his wife. What was it like to learn about shootings with the guns he sold? “I hate it,” he said. “I hate that I sold it and he might have used it, but there’s nothing I can, you know …” He trailed off.
I pointed out that in the Connecticut case, investigators had been able to uncover the trafficking ring after tracing the gun to his shop. Was that a good use of resources? “Yeah,” he said. “I mean, they need to be able to do that. But they just, you know, they need to pay more attention to the crooks than people trying to make an honest living.”
I heard similar complaints from other dealers who had their licenses revoked during Biden’s term for transgressions they insisted were mere clerical mistakes. One in Indiana told me that his violations included a mix-up involving an Amish customer’s name; one in South Carolina told me his violations included filling out forms on behalf of elderly customers with shaky handwriting. “If it had been six months earlier, they would have given us a slap on the hand,” he said.
Even some within the ATF had misgivings, worrying that the policy would strain the agency’s relations with law-abiding dealers and make them less likely to offer alerts on suspicious behavior by buyers. “The industry is probably one of the best ways we get information about trafficking,” McCormick, the retired Ohio agent, told me. “But if there’s friction between us and the industry, they’re less likely to report it.”
Gun-safety advocates discounted that risk, saying the policy had both shut down many lawless stores and encouraged countless other sellers to make sure they were complying with the law. “It’s not only targeting bad dealers but sending a message to the entire industry: button up,” Josh Scharff, general counsel of Brady United, told me.
In 2024, revocations rose yet further, to 183. This represented a mere sliver of dealers — only 2% of those inspected that year — but it provoked new ire, not only from traditional lobby groups such as the National Shooting Sports Foundation and National Rifle Association but from ascendant groups of gun owners with even more aggressively anti-regulation stances.
Some dealers challenged their revocations in federal court. In 2023, the ATF revoked the license of a shop in the Phoenix suburbs, Chambered Group, after four inspections in five years turned up a host of violations. The business sought unsuccessfully to block the revocation in court, with a federal judge, Steven Logan, finding that the business had “purposefully disregarded [federal] regulations by repeatedly violating the same regulations despite being given multiple opportunities to cure its mistakes.” In 2024, one of the shop’s co-owners tried to get a new license under a slightly different name, Chambered Custom Firearms, and the ATF blocked him, noting his past role with the revoked store. (A lawyer for the shop declined to comment.)
But after Trump returned to the White House, his administration announced an end to the zero-tolerance policy, urged revoked dealers to reapply and started settling the court cases, one after another. In April 2025, the DOJ informed the court that it had started settlement talks in the Arizona case and a month later alerted it that Chambered Custom had submitted a new application “which ATF will expeditiously process.” It issued the license in July.
In Oregon, a dealer had gone to federal court to challenge the ATF’s 2024 denial of his license renewal for South Valley Firearms in the town of Monroe due to his past conviction for domestic violence. Trump’s DOJ initially contested the dealer’s bid, but early this year, the department notified his attorney out of the blue that his client would be getting his license, after all. “They didn’t give any explanation as to why,” said the lawyer, Leonard Williamson. “They just said, ‘Have him resubmit his application and we’ll give it to him.’”
The end of zero-tolerance was, on its own, hardly a surprise for an administration elected with the strong support of gun-rights and gun-industry groups. What has differed from the first Trump term has been the wholesale shift of resources away from the enforcement of gun trafficking laws and toward the immigration crackdown, both at the ATF and DOJ.
Last spring, the administration began shifting large numbers of ATF agents to a new assignment: assisting with Immigration and Customs Enforcement actions against undocumented immigrants. ICE records obtained by the libertarian Cato Institute in September showed that nearly 1,800 of ATF’s roughly 2,500 agents had taken part in enforcement and removal operations.
While ATF agents were shifted to immigration operations, criminal referrals fell. ATF referrals for common trafficking-related charges, including the two added in the 2022 law, decreased 15% in 2025 from 2024, according to a ProPublica analysis. Asked about the drop, ATF spokesperson Tanya Roman pointed at DOJ prosecutors. “Not every ATF referral is accepted by the [United States Attorney’s Office] for prosecution,” she said in a written response to questions.
Eventually, the shift toward immigration enforcement reached even beyond ATF’s agents to the industry operations investigators who inspect dealers. Terrence Robinson had served in that role for six years, based in Baltimore. He took pride in the work, but soon after Trump’s second term began, Robinson realized it would be a turbulent year for his agency. As part of the push by Elon Musk’s Department of Government Efficiency to shrink the government, the ATF offered early retirement to many of its 800-odd inspectors. In the end, some 125 took the offer, threatening to overburden a corps already struggling to inspect even a sliver of the nation’s 130,000 licensed firearms dealers. “ATF does not comment on personnel matters,” Roman said.
Around the same time, Robinson went to inspect the location of an applicant for a dealership license in Baltimore. The city, long wracked by gun violence, has come to have virtually no licensed dealers within its boundaries; those that remain are mostly in the suburbs. Robinson was startled to discover that this applicant intended to sell guns from his apartment in a building downtown, a few blocks from Camden Yards. Robinson voiced his concerns to his supervisor, who told him that he had to approve it. “According to our rules and regulations now, he passed a criminal background check, and he’s a citizen, so …,” Robinson said. “It’s mind-boggling.”
Most upsetting, though, was the directive that he and other industry operations investigators received in late summer to start spending at least six hours per week on immigration-related work. It was hard to understand what this even meant — their job was to inspect firearms dealers. To comply, he began scouring dealers’ sales records looking for buyers with foreign-sounding names, which were then relayed to the Department of Homeland Security. This struck him as a monumental misuse of resources.
This was what pushed him over the edge and made him decide to take early retirement, too, in September. “I didn’t sign up to be an immigration person,” he said. “I’m just not that.”
Asked about such orders, the ATF’s Roman said: “In support of President Trump’s whole of government approach to combat illegal immigration, ATF is assisting the Department of Homeland Security and other federal law enforcement partners with their immigration enforcement efforts. To ensure operational security and the safety of our agents and partners, ATF does not disclose details or specific numbers of personnel deployments or enforcement activities.”
Now that Robinson was gone, his former team was down from 10 to six, with a temporary supervisor. He worried what the changes at ATF meant for public safety. “I’m not saying I can see the future, but I don’t see things getting better,” he said. “I see things getting worse.”
Terrence Robinson served as an inspector at the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives for six years in Baltimore. The directive that he and other industry operations investigators received in late summer was to start spending at least six hours per week on immigration-related work. This was what pushed him over the edge and made him decide to take early retirement. “I didn’t sign up to be an immigration person,” he said. “I’m just not that.” KT Kanazawich for ProPublica
“Everyone’s been in a little bit of shock about what’s going on,” Marianna Mitchem said last December, speaking from the stage of a conference on gun violence at the Center for American Progress, the center-left think tank in Washington. She described what the ATF had accomplished in recent years, then she laid bare the extent of the pullback now underway.
Mitchem told the advocates that they would have to look to officials in their home states and cities to try to fill the void left by the Trump administration. “It’s up to the states to start tackling this trafficking problem, because unfortunately, you’re not going to have the support of the ATF,” she said.
This has already started happening in a few places. In the suburbs of Philadelphia, a city that suffered one of the worst pandemic-era homicide spikes but has since experienced dramatic improvement, county sheriffs have started doing more inspections of dealers to make up for the decline in ATF enforcement. A member of the conference audience asked Mitchem what else states could be doing to respond. Her answer suggested she wasn’t sure.
“ATF wasn’t always the most widely known agency. I think we sort of liked it that way. We did really, really good work and kept our head down,” she said. “And so now, you’re trying to let everybody know, unfortunately, there are still good people there, but they’ve been redirected.”
In February, Trump’s nominee to lead the agency, Robert Cekada, downplayed that redirection at his confirmation hearing. Cekada is a 20-year ATF veteran, a fact in which gun-safety advocates have tried to take some reassurance. Cekada testified that the agency was continuing to “do dealer inspections uninhibited.”
But ATF has made it much harder for researchers and the public to track that work. It took the administration more than 15 months to release a tally of how many dealer licenses it had revoked: 56 in 2025, down 69% from the year before. Cekada also challenged a report last fall that 80% of the ATF’s agents had been reassigned to immigration enforcement. The reassignment had never amounted to more than 100 agents at a given time, Cekada said. “ATF in those operations has been focused on offenders that were illegally armed with firearms,” he told senators.
But as the former federal prosecutors and ATF agents I spoke with noted, the key question when it comes to the fight against trafficking is whether prosecutors are seeking out cases. After all, the ATF investigates cases, but U.S. attorneys prosecute them. And here the evidence suggests a pullback. A ProPublica analysis shows that in the first year of the Trump administration, the DOJ declined 30% more referrals from the ATF for the main trafficking-related charges than it had the year prior.
Despite the high rate of declinations for ATF referrals, the DOJ last year ended up prosecuting nearly as many gun-trafficking cases from all sources as it had in 2024. But a growing share of the cases, roughly 30%, were under the new trafficking conspiracy charges included in the 2022 law, which since its inception has proven especially useful in cases involving gun trafficking across the Mexican border: About a fifth of all people charged under that law over the course of 2024 and 2025 are in a single district, western Texas. Asked about the rise in declinations of ATF referrals and the shift toward border-related cases, DOJ spokesperson Katie Kenlein said, “The department declines to comment on prosecutorial strategy.”
Webster, the Johns Hopkins researcher, said numbers leave little doubt as to the shift away from general anti-trafficking enforcement. “Everything is diverted,” he said. “It’s all about immigrants.”
On April 29, right after being confirmed as ATF director, Cekada announced 34 proposed rule changes, including requiring dealers to hold records for only 20 or 30 years, not indefinitely, and limiting ATF scrutiny of the state-issued permits that can replace background checks for buyers. “We are proposing to remove unnecessary hurdles that were standing in the way of law-abiding citizens and businesses,” he said, flanked by leaders of the NRA and National Shooting Sports Foundation.
One crucial Biden-era reform has persisted: the clampdown on ghost guns. The 2022 ATF regulation survived a Supreme Court challenge last year, and lawsuits by several cities helped drive the leading producer of ghost guns out of business. Webster and other criminologists note that the reduced flow of ghost guns correlates with a sharply lower rate of shootings by teenagers, who had been heavy users of the guns during the 2020-21 homicide surge.
Even that progress seemed as if it might be at risk. In early April, a joint status report issued to the federal court in Texas where the case originated stated that “ATF has advised that it plans to take agency action to amend the challenged rule” (even though the rule has been upheld by the Supreme Court). A day later, the White House’s 2027 budget called for reversing “the imposition of excessive restrictions on homemade firearms.” But five days after that, the DOJ notified the court in the Texas case that “the government has decided to maintain the definition” that underlies the ghost gun rule. Asked for clarification, the ATF’s Roman said last week: “ATF is still conducting legal reviews for other, more technically challenging rules. If changes are needed following the review, a proposal will be published.” For now, one key valve in the pipeline remains closed.
“No One Is Watching”: How Trump Reversed Biden’s Crackdown on Gun Trafficking was originally published by ProPublica and is republished with permission.
